


Help in cut time

by Nausi



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Character Study, Comfort, Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, Growth, Mental Health Issues, References to the Smiths, Self-Love, self help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 06:16:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17116010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nausi/pseuds/Nausi
Summary: Hank McCoy hasn't been himself in a long time. The changes happened slowly, so slowly that at first no one thought much of it, but over time it became clear that this was more than a case of natural personality change. In his struggle with his appearance, Hank McCoy damaged his own genetic code, and is now suffering from a degenerative process which even he cannot manage to cure. The prognosis seems grim, but there is hope.





	Help in cut time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sir_Nir_of_the_Blackwater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Nir_of_the_Blackwater/gifts).



> This is a gift fic written for my friend Nir via the gift Xchange on the Xplain the Xmen Discord. We've had a lot of fun chatting about X-men, and we have the same feelings about Hank. There have been some interesting stories done with him in the last ten or more years, but now it's time for healing, and restoration. I hope that other Hank fans find some catharsis with us in this story.
> 
> Thank you to the multiple people who proof read this work and talked me through my weird ideas. You know who you are and I love you.

It hadn’t been easy to ask for help. That was something Hank knew he was bad at, and would be bad at, for a long time. It was odd though, how much easier it was to ask for help when it wasn’t himself he was trying to help. It was also surreal that in this instance he _was_ trying to help himself, just not the self his mind currently inhabited. Still, it didn’t matter that intellectually he knew that he and the older, bluer McCoy were the same, their minds were separate, and that was enough. He could only hope he was not too late.

It would have been asking too much of the universe to be able to fix this on his own. At first he had been dead set on it, but the longer he was here, the more he saw, the clearer it became that was simply not an option. Doctor McCoy needed help, and he needed far more than Hank could give him. Extensive study and interviewing had informed his opinion that Henry McCoy of this time was suffering from neuron degeneration, brought on by unstable hyper genetic mutation caused by damage inflicted via repeated tampering.

At first Hank had worried that it was McCoy’s original tinkering that had set everything off, something so far back, layered under so many mistakes that there would be no correcting it, that there would only be insufficient mitigation. Despite all logic and evidence to the contrary, he hoped that when he went back he might be able to avoid this for himself and perhaps create some sort of splinter universe in which he was not a self sabotaging idiot in blue.

This was of course why Josh Foley had been brought in. Why he and McCoy were laying in the medbay side by side with Josh standing between them, one of each of their hands in either of his. It had taken him a good long time to work up the nerve to ask for help, but once he’d decided there was no other choice, there was no one to go to, no one able to meet their need. Not until they had come back from their misadventures in space and he’d been introduced to the golden skinned wonderboy, at least. Hank had almost been jealous, which was preposterous, of the way McCoy greeted Josh, with such paternal pride and affection. Still, it had been very clear that this was the person, the only person, he could ask and hope to experience some sort of success.

Convincing himself to accept the help had been another surreal experience. One which Hank couldn’t help thinking of as the elder him lay quiet, put into a dream like state by Josh to avoid any spikes in anxiety during the procedure.

\-----

_“I know it can’t be easy to hear this, especially not from me, but you cannot have failed to noticed - you are slipping.” Hank had held his breath, the tension in the air too thick to slice with even a sonic knife._

_“Is that what you wanted to tell me?” McCoy adjusted his glasses and shook his great blue head. Hank couldn’t help noticing how the golden eyes slipped off of him, almost unwilling to look at his comparatively hairless form, “Boy, unless you have some personal question or can tell me something I do not already know you should leave me be. We have no hope of me finding an answer to this slow and inevitable process if you continue to -”_

_“That’s just it. I didn’t come down here just to say that. I want to help, but we need assistance -”_

_“There is no one. Do you think I have not already consulted with the brightest minds of our, or my, time? None of them are as familiar with the X-gene as I, and in my condition …” McCoy had trailed off, having noticed the look in the young man’s eye. “You have thought of this. Of course you have.”_

_“I have.” Hank nodded. “Josh Foley knows what you know, and then some, and he’s mostly sane, and he has my genome to work off of.” Please, please just accept this, Hank thought desperately as he watched the golden eyes in that cat like face examine him._

_“Yes. Whatever it is … I agree.”_

_The words had felt like lead bricks. Hank swallowed and wondered at how bad things had become, at how little hope McCoy had to jump at this proposition without even hearing him out. How much worse is it, old friend?_

_The answer to that question was: a lot worse, orders of magnitude worse. It was a testament to McCoy’s poise and self possession that he was able to appear as put together as he was. The state of his mind explained a great deal though. The genetic tampering had stolen more and more from him as time went on, making it difficult for McCoy to remember things, like a boy in a jar on a shelf, and made him fixate on others, the decimation of his people. Rather than seeing himself as one of many players Hank could see how McCoy had put so much of the burden on himself as a way to cope. If he could accomplish something in his state, if he could make something right, then it would not have all been for nothing. Perhaps he would have even found that he was not losing his mind, but that he was actually becoming more sane. Maybe he would have discovered that it was the rest of the world that was insane …_

\-----

Hank shook himself and tried not to get lost in his suppositions about what McCoy had been drowning himself in. Down those paths lay only madness and self loathing. The motion drew Josh’s attention.

“You know this isn’t going to fix everything, don’t you? I know we’ve been over this, but you are rather closer to the situation than I think you want to admit.” The display light in the dim room cast odd shadows, colored and wavering over Josh’s skin and McCoy’s fur.

With a sigh, Hank nodded, “I know, I know we can’t take him back to before he ever tampered with our genetics, that this is in my future. We can stop the deterioration, we can get him back to where he was mentally, before McCoy did catastrophic damage to his mind.” Hank fussed with the sheet laying over him, anxious and vulnerable, “That’s enough.”

Josh shook his head, “I’ve tried to tell you, though I’m not sure you can really understand. I can’t blame you, all things considered, but I can’t keep repeating myself, not now. If you’d been there, if you’d seen what it was like to wake up in a world with almost no mutants, if you’d seen what it did to us, you’d understand.” Josh shifted his stance and looked up from the holoscreen, “It broke him, Hank. Doctor McCoy was already slipping, but the emotional trauma of M-day, that’s what broke him, that was what started him down the path of ‘Very bad choices’.”

It was true, this wasn’t the first time that Josh had tried to tell him about M-day. It was such a horrible event though, such a senseless act that came from an almost incomprehensible series of events itself, that his mind continued to struggle to hold onto it. Hank refused to let it happen this time. He looked into Josh’s eyes and nodded. “I understand.”

“Honestly I’m not sure that you truly can understand, Hank. You weren’t there. You didn’t see that bus explode. You didn’t help pull lifeless bodies, the bodies of children you’d taught, out of burning wreckage. You didn’t have to help organize the funerals of children whose parents didn’t want them even when their powers had gone, even in death.” There was a fire in Josh, a passion and pain in him that burned high and dark. Hank could see it, could see how it threatened to eat Josh alive.

As Hank continued to watch as the golden boy took several deep breaths, swallowed down the festering despair, and contained the darkness. “No, but I hear you, Josh. When this is over, McCoy is going to have more work to do. He’s going to need more help. I … I just don’t know how much longer I’m going to be here or what help I can be. I give you my word though, whatever time I have -”

“Talk to Mister Drake. The way I hear it the two of you used to be best friends. Talk to Jean. If he has a little support, if you can find out about any friends he has that have struggled with something similar, anything, talk to them. What he needs is support, understanding, and patience.” Josh nodded, and then looked back at the screen, “What you can’t do for him, they may be able to.”

“And when I’m gone?” Hank asked.

Josh was quiet for a time and then answered softly, one gleaming hand stroking the thick blue fur of his mentor’s shoulder, “When you’re gone, I’ll look after him.”

\-----

The tea pot was not dainty but if felt quite small and fragile in his large paw-like hands. He took special care not to spill as he poured a cup for Jonothon and himself. The fragrance of bergamot and spices filled the air of his modest, book strewn room, making it feel especially homey.

_“You make a right nice cup of tea, Hank.”_

The words rang and vibrated pleasantly in his head. Hank liked to believe that the unique sensation of Jonothon’s voice was a direct reflection of the incredible power swirling within him. “Unlike most people from where you come from, I pay attention to temperature.”

 _“And what’s that supposed to mean?”_ Jonothon stirred his tea under Hank’s watchful golden gaze.

“Just that. Most times I’ve had tea with anyone from the UK, they’ve poured boiling water directly over black and oolong.” Hank shook his head. “If you fancy a bitter cup by all means, do that, dissolve the tannins. If, however, you wish to have a pleasant, complex cup of tea, I recommend using water one to two degrees below boiling. That or pouring a little cool water over the tea leaves before you dump the bubbling cauldron over them.”

The smile on Jono’s face was evident in his eyes and brows. There was also a sensation in Hank’s mind, a different sort of tingle that felt very much like a chuckle. _“Don’t tell me mum, eh?”_

“No, of course not.” Hank smirked back as he settled himself in his chair. “I know that you have more important things to do than to meet with me and make sure I’m not about to undo everything that Josh and my younger counterpart did for me. I can assure you -”

 _“That’s not why I’m here, mate.”_ Jonothon looked at Hank with soulful, bistre eyes in which Hank could see himself. He was still large, still blue, still furry.

“Care to enlighten me then?” Hank’s voice was gruff and his words clipped with frustration.

 _“I care about you Hank, you’re one of me mates.”_ With an unwavering hand Jonothan reached out and touched Hank’s arm. _“I understand wantin’ things to be different, needin’ control. I haven’t let them put me back together.”_

There was nothing to say to this. It wasn’t something that the younger McCoy had thought of, or asked about. It was something Hank had thought of. It was odd to file back through his memories of Jonothon and find the talk that the younger version of himself had had with the man there amongst his own memories. It was odd to have memories of caring so deeply about himself. “The two of them gave me as much as they could, and I feel guilty for wanting more, for wanting what you have.”

 _“What I have? Come off it Hank! You’ve got your entire body. You don’t have to reconstruct taste through scent and a few weird things in the roof of your mouth! Sure you’ve got a lot of body hair, but it’s a fetching color, and you’re softer than velvet.”_ Jonothon’s hand moved over Hank’s arm to prove his point. _“You aren’t fond of how you look, but really, aside from the haters, you’re the only one. The rest of us think you’re a decent lookin’  bloke.”_

“Jonothan -”

 _“Bleedin’ hell Hank, how many times do I have to say it? Call me Jono.”_ Hank watched as Jono lifted his tea cup and finished what was there. It was a mesmerizing sight, watching a cup drink itself.

Hank took a deep breath and looked down at his hands. After several moments of silence he began asking himself why he was still so hung up on all of this? _Do I value physically mutated, visibly mutated, persons less? Has that been it all along? Am I that shallow?_ Hank frowned and fiddle with his cup, uncomfortable with his own thoughts.

 _“You’re too smart a bloke to be doing this to yourself still.”_ Jono cocked his head, watching Hank.

“I don’t … I don’t always like myself.” The words hurt coming out, but when he saw the shared pain in those dark eyes, Hank felt relief. He’s said it, and there was no frustration in the listener, no quick reprimand, no head shake, or confusion. There was simply an understanding that went beyond simple words.

_“Life’s a bitch, isn’t she?”_

Hank nodded, “She’s a wild horse, and I am no horseman.” With a loud sigh Hank shook great head and relaxed. A great deal of tension had gone out of him.

 _“You put on another pot of tea. I’ll get the smiths on.”_ Jono reached into his coat and pulled out his phone. They’d set it up to pair with Hank’s sound system on his first visit. Hank watched for a moment before he stood up, bemused by the change in conversation. _“Nothin’ else to say really, nothin’ that Morrissey and Marr can’t say for us anyway.”_

With another nod Hank turned on the kettle and chuckled. “They aren’t the poets I would have chosen, but right now I am in the mood for something completely different than my normal choices.”


End file.
